


and Pablo Neruda, too

by rae_scribbler



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Based On Poetry, Enemies to Friends, Fluff without Plot, Genderfluid Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Pablo Neruda is a boss, Sorry Not Sorry, Touch-Starved Crowley (Good Omens), mostly book verse i guess cos i'm not sure TV!Aziraphale had ever been discorporated before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 13:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20875127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rae_scribbler/pseuds/rae_scribbler
Summary: When your hands go out,love, toward mine,what do they bring me flying?A short fic based on some Pablo Neruda poetry.





	and Pablo Neruda, too

**Author's Note:**

> Poem: Your Hand  
by Pablo Neruda  
translated by Donald D. Walsh  
You can find the original Spanish, as well as English and French translations, here: http://samemoonlight.blogspot.com/2010/10/tus-manos-by-pablo-neruda-spanish.html?m=1
> 
> I know it's not TV canon, but I like the idea that Crowley and Aziraphale have been discorporated a lot over the millennia, and have had some very randomly selected bodies.

Ⅰ.

_When your hands go out,_  
_ love, toward mine,_  
_ what do they bring me flying?_  
_ Why did they stop_  
_ at my mouth, suddenly,_  
_ why do I recognize them_  
_ as if then, before,_  
_ I had touched them,_  
_ as if before they existed_  
_ they had passed over_  
_ my forehead, my waist?_  
  
  
Aziraphale had touched Crowley many times, for many reasons. It was mostly in reserved pats and reluctant handshakes that varied with the culture of the time and place. There was nothing special about their interactions in the first centuries of their acquaintance, which were polite (and sometimes just barely civil), but nothing more. Crowley couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he realized that Aziraphale’s touch had become friendly. He only knew that suddenly he welcomed the angel’s hands, and that he had perhaps always welcomed them.  
  
Whenever Aziraphale raised a gentle hand to touch him, Crowley remembered what _home_ felt like. Not that he’d ever had a home to remember. Neither heaven nor hell fell into that description. But in those rare, fleeting moments, Aziraphale’s steady hands offered him all the love that heaven had failed to provide. And Crowley felt as though these hands had always held him, as though he had always known them.

Ⅱ.

_Their softness came _  
_ flying over time,_  
_ over the sea, over the smoke,_  
_ over the spring,_  
_ and when you placed_  
_ your hands on my chest,_  
_ I recognized those golden_  
_ dove wings,_  
_ I recognized that clay_  
_ and that colour of wheat._  
  
  
They’d both been discorporated rather too many times over the years. More than once Aziraphale had come back in an entirely different corporation. Sometimes Crowley wouldn’t even recognize him. But just when Crowley was thinking it had been a suspiciously long time since he’d seen the angel, a stranger would approach him and put an intimately familiar hand on his chest.  
  
Sometimes it was an aging man. Or a middle-aged woman. Or occasionally, a young non-binary person. It didn’t matter. They all felt like Aziraphale. Each time, as soon as Crowley felt the tenderness of Aziraphale’s hands, he knew. He knew, as though Aziraphale had appeared with golden light in his hair and feathered wings on his back.

Ⅲ.

_All the years of my life_  
_ I walked around looking for them._  
_ I went up the stairs,_  
_ I crossed the roads,_  
_ trains carried me,_  
_ waters brought me,_  
_ and in the skin of the grapes_  
_ I thought I touched you._  
_ The word suddenly_  
_ brought me your touch,_  
_ the almond announced to me_  
_ your secret softness,_  
_ until your hands_  
_ closed on my chest_  
_ and there like two wings_  
_ they ended their journey._  
  
  
It had always been about Aziraphale’s touch; this was a belated realization. Crowley began to crave the familiarity of it in the decades they went without seeing each other. Instinctively, unconsciously, he began to look for the angel wherever he went. He looked for Aziraphale’s hands in the greetings of humans, in the smooth skin of fruit, in the softness of pillows. He looked for Aziraphale where he knew he wouldn’t find him, in the bottom of a glass, in the stars, in his sleep.

Then one day he was in a park, tying fake apples to the low branches of a walnut tree, and suddenly Aziraphale’s hand was on his shoulder. “I missed you, my dear,” said Aziraphale. And then he was holding Crowley’s face in his hands, fingers lightly brushing his lips. And Crowley knew. Crowley grabbed those unbearably soft fingers, kissed them, held them to his chest.

Aziraphale held his gaze fondly. He kissed him, soft and feather-light. Then he wrapped his arms and wings around Crowley, and Crowley was home.

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to use a walnut tree instead of an almond because I figured the third part probably takes place in England... (do almond trees grow in the UK climate? ack, what do I know about trees?)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! This fic isn't in my usual style so I'd love to hear your thoughts! (seriously, don't be afraid to leave constructive criticism should you have the desire to!) I'm a little bit afraid that it's hard to follow, but I hope you liked it!  
luv ya!  
~rae


End file.
